The Lies We Tell Ourselves
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl ZA Post Season 9. Oneshot. He didn't want to risk losing her again. It was time that they finally stopped lying to themselves.


**AN: An anon on Tumblr asked for a prompt about "it's time to stop lying to ourselves" and this is what I was driven to write. It's nothing exciting, just a little something to pass some time on a Sunday.**

**Just a warning that this is written in stream-of-consciousness, so it might not be everyone's cup of tea.**

**I own nothing from the Walking Dead and I've watched very little of it for the past few years. **

**I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think! **

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Screwing his courage up to the so-called sticking place took time. It took time for everyone to work up to something that terrified them. They spent hours sometimes, or even days, just chewing over a situation, playing out scenarios, and talking themselves into action. It was common for someone to take their time coming to action.

The problem, really, was that Daryl had been gathering up his courage for more or less thirteen years.

And, honestly, he was starting to get nervous that the universe was simply going to run out of chances to give him if he didn't pull it together soon.

He'd come so close to losing her so many times before that he'd lost count of all the second and third chances he'd been given. One day, there wouldn't be any more chances.

And he wasn't sure how he would live with himself when that was the case. Each time he'd lost her before—or thought he'd lost her—he'd felt like his life was over. It wasn't that he'd thought he'd die, because he knew that he'd simply keep on living, but he'd felt like he wasn't exactly sure that life was worth living.

She made him feel like it was all worth it. He didn't want to lose that. Not again.

In the time that he'd known her, he'd seen her with a man that absolutely didn't deserve her—a man who treated her in a way that a woman like her should never be treated. He hadn't been ready when she'd been free from that man. He'd told himself that he wasn't interested in her. He wasn't interested in that kind of relationship. He only cared for her as a friend, a member of his group—as family. He didn't love her that way.

But he held his breath every time they met someone new—some man who might want to love her that way.

And his heart had leapt around with a little relief every time she'd seemed uninterested in those they encountered.

He'd told himself that he was simply happy that she wasn't settling for someone who couldn't love her like she deserved to be loved. He was happy that she wasn't involved in something that could hurt her. He would wish her all the happiness in the world when the time was right and the person had everything to offer her that she deserved.

He'd thought she was lost to him, not once, but twice. He'd thought she was dead and he'd mourned her for a short time. He'd beaten himself up for not telling her how he felt, even though he barely understood how he felt and wasn't sure that he could explain it. He'd found her, safe against all odds, and he'd told himself that his reaction had only been the reaction of losing a dear friend. The second time she'd been lost to him—cast out by someone that he trusted to help keep her safe, even if he'd never voiced how important it was to him that everyone help keep her safe—he'd felt like he had to find her or else he'd simply live the rest of his life feeling like there was something missing that he needed to keep searching for. When he'd seen her again, he hadn't been able to contain himself. He'd had to touch her to be sure she was real.

And he'd told himself that he was happy to see her because he loved her. She was family and he didn't want to lose any more family.

He had seen her with a man who she couldn't even seem content with. Every time Daryl had seen her, she'd looked sad, alone, and pained, despite the fact that she supposedly had this man to lean on. He hadn't seen her much, though, because seeing them together was difficult. It made him feel ways that he wasn't willing or ready to admit. It had made him feeling things that he wasn't ready to deal with. He'd told himself that the feelings came from his concern that a very dear friend was in a relationship that didn't truly make her happy, and he wanted her to be happy.

He'd never asked her about the relationship, though. He'd told himself it wasn't his business. He'd told himself that she didn't want him interfering.

He'd told himself that she knew what was best for her and, even as a friend, he had nothing better to offer her than that which she'd found.

He put distance between them because he'd told himself that the distance would make both of them feel better.

When her relationship with that man seemed to dissolve, Daryl had felt relief, but he'd told himself that it was only because he was pleased that she hadn't been caught up in a relationship that wasn't right for her. He was glad that she hadn't suffered longer in something that didn't make her happy.

And he hadn't been ready to step in and suggest that, maybe, he could make her happy. Maybe he could make her happier than the other man had made her. He hadn't been ready to say that he'd been thinking about the possibility that he might have something to offer her, even if that something was simply the comfort that she seemed to be seeking.

He'd told himself that his desire to comfort her and be with her was only his love for a very dear friend making him ache to be close to her. He'd told himself that her love for him was nothing more than the love that she would feel for anyone she called family.

He'd never told her that he'd very nearly felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest when she'd told him that another man had asked for her hand—properly and as it should be done, according to all past traditions—and that she'd considered saying yes. At that moment, he could have spoken up for himself. He could have said something. He could have told her that he'd rather she had taken his hand. He could have said that he wasn't sure he loved her the way that she deserved to be loved, but he was certainly willing to try to learn if he fell short in some way.

Instead, he'd simply asked her why she hadn't said yes, and he'd pushed her toward something he thought she might need even though he felt, in his gut, that she'd been reluctant to go. But she'd accepted his pushing, and she'd gone where he'd directed her.

And he'd told himself that his sadness was only because he feared she wasn't as happy as she should be.

And he'd told himself that the distance he put between them was because they were both pursuing other things, and not because he could barely breathe every time he saw her with the man who called her his wife and the mother of their child—the second child that Daryl had seen her lose in the years that he'd known her. The second child that he would have done anything to save for her, just to save her from the pain he saw in her eyes as she laid to rest his remains.

When she'd told him that her marriage was over, and she'd come to him seeking comfort, he'd taken her away from the place she'd asked to leave, and he'd taken her to the place where she wanted to go. He'd taken her somewhere to be surrounded by those she considered family. He'd taken her to start a new life.

He'd told himself that it wasn't proper to think of anything more with her than friendship. She needed space to breathe. She needed room to mourn her losses.

He'd told himself that she didn't love him—not that way—and that she was tired of men and love and marriage.

He'd told himself that he had nothing to really offer her and that the love he had for her was nothing more than the love of a very dear friend—someone who couldn't imagine living without her, but only because she'd become such an integral thread to the tapestry of his life.

He watched her help raise the daughter that he'd found for himself—giving her a home and a family when she didn't have one, perhaps, because he wished that someone had done the same for him. He'd helped her care for the girl who was soon to be a woman and, somehow, they'd become father and mother as though it were just that natural for such a thing to happen overnight and by choice alone.

And he'd invited her to share his home because they'd both be alone, otherwise, and the silence of solitude was sometimes too loud for the both of them. They lived across the hall from one another, but even that distance could seem like the continental divide. His words stuck in his throat and his breath caught in his chest every time he saw her padding around the house in bare feet and bare legs and a button-down shirt that she wore as a nightgown.

But he told himself that it was only biology at work that made him feel that way and she wouldn't appreciate knowing that he laid awake in bed and thought about what it might be like to have her lying there beside him or that he preferred his showers cold because, most of the time, he thought about her bathing and needed some relief.

He told himself that she wasn't interested in him. Every smile and lingering glance was something he was reading wrong. She was being playful because she was his friend. Every suggestive thing she said was nothing more than a joke. She liked to get a rise out of him like a buddy who would slug him in the shoulder or slap him on the back over a good laugh shared—except her jokes involved asking him, in more than one way, to share her bed.

But he told himself that she wasn't interested in him that way, and he certainly wasn't interested in her that way.

Their love was real, and it was strong enough that it pulled at him night and day, but it wasn't that kind of love.

He didn't have the courage to tell her the truth because he didn't have the courage to even tell himself the truth.

But then there was the young man—new to their community—who was making eyes at their daughter. The young man had her attention, too. It seemed that she felt safe enough between the two of them that she was ready to look for some sort of normalcy. She was ready to branch out beyond their tiny family unit. She was ready to consider dating a boy. Maybe she was ready to consider more when the time was right—and Daryl would urge both her and the boy to wait until the time was right, even if he might not urge them to wait as long as he had.

But it made him think that there had to be a way to know when the time was right. There had to be a moment when it was simply time to find one's courage and to stop accepting excuses.

There had to be a moment when we all stop telling ourselves the lies that fill our lives.

He didn't want to tell them that he had no way of knowing, exactly, how one knew when that time might be.

But he had a pretty good feeling that he knew when the right time finally came for him—the moment he feared that the universe might simply run out of second chances.

The moment when it was time to finally stop lying to himself.

The young man—new to their community—had a father who was equally new to their community. He was a man by the name of Jonathan and he'd inquired about the mother of the young girl who had turned his son's head. He'd inquired about her circumstances—because that's what he'd called it and Daryl's own daughter had reported it back to him verbatim.

Jonathan wanted to know Carol's circumstances. He wanted to know if she was alone. He wanted to know, without a shadow of a doubt, if she was looking for someone to care for her in a way that was more than just friends and more than just family.

And Daryl knew that if he lost her again, he might not get her back.

He'd meant to do things so much more smoothly. He'd had thirteen years to gather up his courage and to plan his words, but he'd wasted most of those years simply making up excuses and telling himself lies. Now he was going into this almost as blind as if he'd simply jumped in—feet first and both feet at once—back at a rock quarry in Georgia when he'd told himself that he only cared at all because she was a good person and deserved more than what she had.

She was all smiles and sunshine when she walked into the door carrying the small wicker basket loaded down with the fruits and vegetables she'd picked up at the small exchange they called a farmer's market where they swapped out what they grew in their personal gardens. She was so comfortable with him—so used to him being there—that she didn't even look at him when she came in the door. She simply took her spoils directly to their kitchen. He followed her in there, his heart pounding in his chest, as he struggled to make a last minute plan about what to do.

"Mrs. Watkins' tomatoes are beautiful," Carol said. "I got a whole basket of them. I thought I could cut them up to eat on their own as a side for dinner tonight."

"I gotta talk to you," Daryl blurted.

Carol turned around, her eyebrows raised in surprise, and she smiled at him.

"Are you OK?" She asked with a nervous laugh. "Is this about the tomatoes? Because we can have whatever side you had in mind. I've got some squash, too."

"It ain't about tomatoes, or food for that matter," Daryl said.

Carol laughed nervously to herself again.

"What's it about, then?" She asked.

He saw her struggle to swallow as he stepped closer to her. She wasn't afraid of anything in the world except darkness and loss. Daryl knew that. She didn't fear people or monsters or things that went bump in the dark. She didn't fear the darkness that came when the lights went out. She feared the darkness that lived inside all of them—the darkness that lived inside her. She feared what it made her capable of doing. And she feared loss—with the empty and hollow feeling that it left inside her.

For a year, she'd been soothing over her hurt from the loss of her son, and Daryl had made sure that she was as protected as she could possibly be. He'd helped her with her garden. He'd watched her slowly come to love Lydia as though she were her mother. He'd woken her from the nightmares that plagued her when she closed her eyes—the only time he'd dared to enter her bedroom, even though he'd never let himself admit that he wished he could stay once he was there.

He'd let Carol cry about her darkness and he'd shown her that there was still light inside of her.

Because he loved her. And not as a friend.

She looked scared, right now, as he stood in front of her. He knew, in his gut, that it wasn't her darkness that she feared at the moment. It was loss. She feared that he wanted to talk to her about something that would cost her—something that would cost her dearly, even.

And Lydia was safe and well, so it must have been him that she feared losing.

"It's about Jonathan," Daryl said.

"Who?" Carol asked, furrowing her brows at Daryl.

"That boy's daddy," Daryl said.

Carol smiled to herself.

"What about him?" She asked.

"He asked Lydia about you," Daryl said.

Carol shook her head. She didn't say anything, she simply shook her head.

"I think it's time we stop lyin' to ourselves," Daryl said.

"About?" Carol asked. She barely breathed out the word. Daryl stepped toward her and she backed up. The lingering concern was still present on her features. She worried about the conversation. She worried about where it was going and what it might cost her. But she wasn't retreating out of fear. Not that kind of fear. Daryl pursued her.

For once and for all, he pursued her—even if that meant only following her until her back was against the countertop where she lovingly prepared their meals day in and day out—teaching Lydia to cook sometimes and asking Daryl for help because chopping vegetables happened to be his specialty.

"You and me—we love each other," Daryl said.

"We do," Carol said. Daryl wasn't certain if it was a question or a statement.

"It's time stop lyin'. Stop sayin' that it ain't nothin' more'n just—friends. Stop actin' like it ain't love. The real kinda love." Daryl swallowed. "I don't know how else to say it, but—I love you. And if he starts askin' about your circumstances, I hope you'll know what to tell him. I'm ready to stop lyin' to myself. I hope—just hope to hell that you are, too."

Carol smiled at him. She raised her eyebrows.

"Daryl," she said, "I haven't been lying to myself. I've just been waiting for you to come around."

Daryl's heart thundered in his chest. He dipped his head to seek a kiss and she met his lips with her own and happily filled his request. She tasted wonderful. She tasted like he was finally getting everything he wanted—everything he'd failed to even admit that he'd dreamed of.

When he pulled away from her kiss, he immediately wanted more.

"I'm here," Daryl said.

Carol laughed to herself.

"It took you long enough," she said. "I feel like I've been waiting forever. Through—lifetimes. Just to get here."

"Me too," Daryl said. He kissed her again. This time it was a deeper kiss. A longer kiss. This time she dug her fingers into his back and he felt her wrap a leg around his. This time his whole body cried out for everything it had been waiting on for thirteen long years. "Worth the wait," Daryl breathed out when the kiss broke. "Glad I'm here now. Wish we hadn't wasted so much time."

"Doesn't matter," Carol said. "Now is all we have anyway. Let's just make the best of it."


End file.
